A Mess It Grows - LS18, OP81
Pairing: Lance Stroll x Oscar Piastri (Maplescotch)
Summary: Following Lando's win at Miami, an insecure Oscar heads to his hotel room to regress. One of his boyfriends follows suit to comfort him the only way they know how.
Warnings: Angst, fluff, kink themes (petplay/animal play), sfw intimacy, hurt/comfort, mentions of polyamory, use of pet names
A/N: Crosspost of my fic from my ao3 (inlovingmemory) and also my first fic here. Maplescotch is such an underrated ship and one of the few I would actually die for. (Mainly bc I'm a sucker for ships only I care about) Enjoy.
The checkered flag waved as crowds clad in orange and black began their frantic frenzy. 8 seconds ahead of the 3-times World Champion, for several laps. The rows upon rows of fans under the Florida sun were livid at the sight. Could it really be? A car the color of papaya-orange crossed the finish line for the first time since 2021. But an Australian wasn't the winner. Not this time.
No, that Australian was at Toro Rosso now. AlphaTauri. RB. Whatever they were called, it wasn't Red Bull or McLaren. He was stuck situated behind a Sauber and would likely be his same, bitter, old self after the race.
Yet, there was one Australian today who got the shorter end of that stick. One younger, yet dressed in the same ol' familiar orange and black. Bright, exhausting orange like his car. The one cameras paid no focus on: Oscar Piastri. Driver for McLaren, Alpine survivor, and 2 seasons into F1. Drove his car off for podium place until Carlos collided his Ferrari into the papaya boy.
Front wing damage. No penalty. Late leaving the pit stop from repairs. Forcibly having to settle for 13th place with no points. Losing his place late in the race while Lando was having the time of his life.
Oh yes, Lando. Lando Norris.
There's not much the Aussie could say about the Brit. They were teammates, they were competitors. Nothing more, nothing less than that. They got along, admittedly, only because Oscar knew they had to.
Being at Alpine years ago, he witnessed the opposite firsthand. His long-term boyfriend, Esteban Ocon, had been the subject of several cutthroat backtalk and altercations involving fellow Frenchman Pierre Gasly. Sly remarks full of snark and internal gossip with mean looks, or full on fights in private. It would get nasty, almost catfight-ish. All Oscar could do was sit back and watch like a child of divorce, until he'd have to later comfort and ice Ocon's bruises.
The Aussie knew any teammate relationship could turn sour like theirs at any time. No matter how long or how deep their bond went, a budding rose always came to grow thorns. He's seen the contempt boil and bubble, masked behind the Frenchmens' PR-fueled, artificial smiles for social media. Pierre's faux-friendliness on and off-camera had targeted him too, coming from someone who desperately wanted to lure the young driver in despite knowing Esteban's warnings. Even the most enticing of snakes prepped their fangs.
But Lando wasn't like that.
Atleast, that's what Oscar hoped. Since switching his colors from Alpine's sugary, teeth-rotting, cotton candy-esque light blue and pink to a more vivid orange, the relationship between the two Anglophones had since been short of amiable. Sure, maybe they weren't constantly at eachother's throats - and maybe Oscar should've been grateful for that - but they weren't the best of friends either. Or friends at all. An air of stillness had settled between them since they first met in the same garage over a year ago, growing like a thick fog.
McLaren and F1's social media could paint the papaya pair like two peas in an overwhelmingly positive pod as much as they wanted, but all it did was make them look good. Good. Marketable. Two young drivers ready to take on the whole grid, overwhelmingly clad in black and orange. A World Champion-in-the-making and a former rookie who seemingly locked together like two puzzle pieces. Landoscar, the fans called it. Soulmates, everyone viewed it.
If it were that easy, maybe Oscar would already be attached to the hip of the Brit. Maybe Lando - for how much he flaunted his shamelessly hedonistic lifestyle as if it were his sole personality trait and thought inside that hollow head of his - would atleast make the effort to include and invite him to stuff once in a while. It's not like Oscar was begging to go to his teammate's pretentious parties across Europe, full of high-class randoms several leagues above him. Full of people he didn't know nor could care less about him or his relationships. Instead, Oscar usually kept quiet, only bothering to smile and make small talk when McLaren needed them to. Even when the cameras weren't rolling, it was never like he asked the Brit time and time again to be besties, although sometimes he wish he did.
Lando wouldn't have to pretend to reach out to him after their social media shoots, pretending to be interested in him and his life. The Aussie knew deep down his teammate, for how dull he proudly was, was playing the same games he was, tricking the media and inadvertently, Oscar aswell. People already thought they were the "bestest" of teammates compared to the other, far more infamous pairs on the grid. The thought made Oscar shiver.
Even his boyfriends, despite the bias against them, were never the subject of tabloids as much as the Brit was. If anything, his two lovers being disliked helped keep their relationship out of the spotlight - yet it only made the vipers of paparazzi focus solely on Lando and Oscar. Labeled as 'friends', an 'ideal couple,' despite the younger man already having special people (who were also on the grid) in his life. But God help him for actually thinking journalists payed attention to what was true.
Maybe he wouldn't be constantly compared to Lando - more than he already was - if they actually were good friends like the news said. Oscar was just a former rookie in the eyes of his team and the media, but Lando was a proven, soon-to-be World Champion. Every step he took, praise followed like a trail of gold. His own red carpet. Even the cameras were too bright, Oscar was almost blinded despite how far he was shoved out their view.
In regards to the times where he, or perhaps where McLaren allowed him to, shone, he was restricted to playing 2nd. Times where he could've helped the team gain points were never considered when they focused on his tanner teammate to earn another podium. Oscar would have to stick towards the back end of the race, feeling too insecure to look at his manager in the eye in the garage. A disgustingly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he'd grown familiar with. And as he predicted, this strategy (or lack thereof) happened again today.
Except Lando was a race winner now.
-
The heat of the Miami sun rested upon Oscar's back as he begrudgingly exited the cockpit, his fireproofs and suit on fire as he ripped off his helmet. What a horrible race that was, just his luck to go from top 4 to being the loser in a challenge with Carlos. The Spaniard seemed to collide with him, giving him damage to his front wing as he'd end up losing his place. Sure, he was able to get back in the race and set the fastest lap so he'd gain something out of it, even if it was to just end up behind an Alpine and out of points territory. But it didn't really mean anything when he had his race ruined and McLaren couldn't care less about him.
From where he currently was in the garage, God Save The King blared in the distance, like a thought he couldn't truly escape. If he were a little more patriotic, he'd find it nauseating. But even if he wasn't, it still was. Everywhere he went, it seemed to remind him that he'd never be good enough. He'd never be like him in their eyes, only a liability. Feeling sick again, Oscar ran and tried finding the nearest bathroom, far from the McLaren garage. Far from the podium. He couldn't bear to deal with the strategists and members of the team crowding his way right now.
It was his day. Lando's day. It always was.
Stood proud on the podium were the same three that usually stood there: a McLaren, a Red Bull, and a Ferrari. A Brit, a Dutchman. and a Monegasque. The sun's golden glare made them looked blessed, like a trio of angels. Oscar couldn't bother to look from behind his back, ignoring the barrage and sea of voices and lights blinding and deafening him if he did. But they weren't for him, not all of them. It didn't matter. The spotlight was focused on something - rather, someone - else, and he needed to leave. Fast and unbothered. His hotel couldn't have been that far from the track, especially when he was sure some of the other drivers were headed their way there also after the race ended.
Especially the two he knew, who he shared a room with. Who he always shared hotel rooms with, discretely under the guise of being a "group of best friends." Whatever people thought, Oscar needed them. Particularly in this moment, when his head began to feel too heavy for him to support himself. When he needed to be away from the masses and fall into a special sort of headspace only they knew about, behind closed doors. Those special, intimate moments.
After having to do some careful finding in the garage and stripping of his fireproofs, Oscar grabbed his phone and immediately went to his contacts. He's changed enough out of his race suit and back to regular McLaren merch that he could sneak back out to the paddock. In such a fast amount of time too, seeing how the rest of the papaya crew was still too focused on throwing Lando around. Then again, Oscar was rushing in a hurry and practically gone ghost once he situated his cap.
Most of the drivers on the grid stayed at the same hotel for certain races, their team executives booking them months in advance. They were never usually that far from the track or paddock either, for the teams convienence. Such was the case for Miami, where Oscar currently padded open the resort's luxerious doors in an urgent manner. Did McLaren need him right now? Probably, if Lando's win got boring to rub in. Would Oscar head back to attend? Nope.
As the Aussie went to dial the number labelled, "Lancey," in a strike of coincidence, life decided to serve itself to him for once. Meeting eye to eye with the Canadian again off track, the taller male's expression went from one of surprise to worry. The concern seemed to rub off the younger man, as evident by how Lance was able to pick up on it quickly.
"Osc, what are ya' doing here? Shouldn't you be at McLaren's garage?"
Nothing. No response. All he received was a big, brown-eyed stare from his dark brown eyes into his. Lance's worry seemed to grow tenfold at his boyfriend's out-of-character silence. Something must've been really wrong, his race must've gone pretty bad. Lance knew his wasn't great either, but Oscar handled his more deeply.
The Canadian looked down with his own dark eyes, reflecting a vulnerable Oscar in them like a mirror. His voice almost cracked, bringing a hand to grip his tightly as he pulled them towards the elevator. Oscar wasn't even aware that the button for their floor was clicked, and soon they were off.
"I'll- I'll need to phone Esteban as soon as possible, tell him he needs to come back immediately. He's—" Lance's voice trembled, as if he had something stuck in his throat. This ride was taking too long, goosebumps forming on skin from pure nervousness.
Seemingly noticing, Oscar rubbed his head of fluffy peanut-brown hair against his side. He looked up into the eyes of his boyfriend, and felt the Canadian's nerves rapidly calm down. Realizing what kind of care Oscar needed now, the taller man spoke again, this time much more clearly.
"Esteban, right. Este is uhm, busy with Fernando right now. He'll be back soon, hopefully with some food. But I might need him to come quicker, especially since you're going into err—" Oscar pawed at Lance's sweater, cutting his train of thought off again. Feeling concerned yet a little more relaxed now, he laughed. Their elevator had reached their floor. Lance heard Oscar whine a little at how hard he gripped the Aussie's hand while walking over to their room door.
"Pupspace." A smile bright as the morning sun spread on his features. Oscar's followed as he laid put on the velvet floor, restlessly pawing at his feet.
He would've preferred if he had brought a leash to Aston Martin's garage, or perhaps if Esteban did to Alpine's. It would've made his job a lot easier, yet it's not like he could've predicted Oscar would regress this soon. Or this severe. Or Nando potentially finding it on accident. That would've been one hell of an embarrassing talk.
After some fumbling with the lock of the hotel door and Lance's strangely large quantity of keys, the door finally let loose. The Montrealer squatted down near the Australian, exchanging a gentle glance and offering his hand to help him back up to his feet, although only to walk him inside. Oscar's weight felt like a bag of thick rice, needing all of Lance's support to be carried inside as if he couldn't use his legs anymore. Granted, that was because he couldn't. He wasn't "grown" enough to do so currently.
The lights of their hotel room were turned down low, a nice warm orange coating everything. Enough time had passed that the Miami sun had begun to set, its luminous colors bleeding through the large glass windows and fine curtains as it dipped into the horizon. The sight almost made Lance sleepy, almost falling into a drowsy state before realizing he was carrying someone much sleepier already.
Setting Oscar aside on the nearest couch, he kept his head up as the Aussie looked at him with pleading eyes. Wanting warmth and attention now that they were behind closed doors, he whined again, in a higher pitch than last time. Lance couldn't help but chuckle, hands on his hips as he returned some sass.
"Alright alrighty, Butterscotch. I'm trying to be fast for ya, but you're asking quite a lot!" The mahogany of the Canadian's lively eyes reflected back onto Oscar's, who couldn't help his cheeks grow pink like bushes of roses. The younger man watched from his place, sat on the couch, as Lance looked around their temporary living space for a few moments. Almost urgently so.
When finished, he had a familiar leather collar wrapped in his hands. Oscar's eyes went wide at the sight. Unable to keep his excitement down, he reached his thin paws out in a 'grabby' motion and yelped. Yip yapping away. Another laugh escaped Lance, who rested a rough hand on Oscar's shoulder. "Who knew Esteban and I had such a needy, impatient puppy..."
"But I shouldn't mock you this much, especially when ya need this more than me right now." Despite his outward manner and physique compared to the Aussie, the Quebecker's hands were quite gentle as he began wrapping the accessory around his partner's neck. Oscar, of course, stayed still and soaked in the attention like a sponge. Feeling the black and orange-accented leather lock into place and hearing his name tag (which simply read: "OP31, replies to 'Oscar' or 'Butterscotch.' If found, return to Stroll or Ocon.") jingle, he finally relaxed. The bad thoughts from earlier were beginning to drain out.
Not bothering to change either of them out of their team merch, Lance pulled his pet into his grip with one arm. Oscar fell immediately into his chest, pawing at it before circling around to settle himself down more comfortably. Lance gazed down, petting the fluffy caramel-brown hair between his fingers as he pressed a kiss on the Australian's nose bridge.
"You're a good boy, Osc. A good pup." Lance paused, looking away from the chocolately love in Oscar's eyes to his own fingers. Fidgeting and flicking them around, he felt a certain paw mess with it. Lance felt a familiar pair of eyes look back up at him again.
"I'm just— sorry. Sorry for you. I just feel bad that, well, ya know. Lando, Carlos, or whoever, ruined your race today."
A high pitched whimper followed in agreement as the younger man laid his head against the chest of Canadian, opting to lay against the armrest as he waited for their other partner to come home. Oscar took in his partner's scent as he laid on his side, curled up in his arms. Faintly smelling like maple with hints of pecan pie. A cold Autumn breeze over the warmth of a thick cotton scarf.
"It wasn't your fault. I know your mind will tell you otherwise, but I won't. I know, I know..."
Oscar was more than upset about the earlier drama and results, but wouldn't be lying if he admitted that he couldn't care anymore. Fortunately fleeting away, then gone in the wind. Was almost like a near memory that he since brushed off once returning home.
Home where he could unwind, where he could be his true self. Where he could no longer worry about the race or any sort of grid drama. A home where he could be with physically, no matter where he went. Melbourne, Suzuka, Shanghai, Miami...
He was safe at home. Safe, secure, and warm. Home meant comfort, but it also meant security. Private, yet seeked fun. Home never judged him for letting his walls down, or anything else really. Home made him feel seen. Feel loved. Acknowledged.
Lance was home, Oscar's home. Nothing could change that. Nothing would. He wore dark green, but loving him was red.
And so were both of their cheeks currently, mutually flushed as they pressed against eachother. Lance wasn't sleeping, no, but he was surely entertaining himself as he watched Oscar try not to. Yet a peck to the cheek helped his senses kick in, as he giggled and licked at the Montrealer's face.
Smiles were exchanged once more, Lance couldn't help but keep playing with the silk of Oscar's hair. The younger man melted to the touch, rubbing against him in an attempt for more petting. His collar seemed to be a bit too tight for his skin, causing a noticeable red mark around his neck. He had his hands available, but seemed to prefer Lance's help.
"I just wish they came to some sense, ya know? Carlos, I mean. I— I don't understand him."
The Quebecker stood up, causing the reaction of his little spoon to do the same. Oscar fell to the floor. Knobby knees against the velvet carpet as he stayed on his fours. Lance stood to stretch, leaning down to pet the Aussie as he walked towards his temporary water bowl. Tapping the side twice, Oscar skittered across obediently. Lance's train of thought continued again as he leaned against the wall, watching Oscar lap up his water.
"There's always gonna be those types of people on the grid, the ones that want you gone. I've been through it, so has Esteban. Even Lewis."
Oscar stayed put on the floor, sitting crissed-cross with his two front hands infront. Water ran from his face down his chin. A noticeable stain now soaking the collar of his papaya-orange polo. He turned his head to the side at Lance's words, whining an octave louder. Brown eyes staring.
"I know what it's like to constantly be compared to your teammate too. You— You have to survive with it in this sport, unfortunately."
Lance adjusted his posture, squatting on the floor before standing up on his knees. Unlike Oscar, he wobbled, only stabilizing himself with a hand behind him on the floor. He pat at his thigh, whistling as he locked eye contact with the Australian, before bringing him in a tight embrace.
"You don't deserve any of this, Butterscotch. None of this. I'm sorry."
The Canadian's grip seemed to fasten against Oscar's skinnier body like a death grip. As if he didn't want to let him go, or let him breathe. Oscar rested his head the broad of Lance's shoulder, hands splayed on his lover's back. He didn't know where else to leave them.
He felt Lance's hands curl into the caramel of his hair, like milkweed silk between his rough fingers. Oscar closed his eyes, huffing before shaking slightly. His breath stuttering as his chest heaved, feeling like the weight of several stones. Was he crying? He can't remember the last time he did that, especially over a race. Over Lando. Over Carlos. Over everything and anything. Lance hugged him tightly, shushing him as he felt cold tears stain his sweater.
A nearby phone on the coffee table began to ring. Lance's phone. Must've been Esteban.
They let it play, ignoring the ringtone repeating before it eventually ended. They didn't need to move for the world, to wait for others. All Lance needed to do was pay attention to his puppy. His pet. His lover. His Oscie.
It was his night. Oscar's night. It always was.
Atleast to Lance. Esteban too, but only one of them was present. That's all that mattered. Oscar had people that cared, spotlight or not. Race winner or not. Unruined race or not.
Before he knew it, the Australian felt lightheaded. And light. His sopping eyes opened once again as streams littered his face, his blurry vision turning around to notice he wasn't on the floor anymore. Lance was carrying him in his arms, bridal style now. It made Oscar feel small. Vulnerable. Safe. Too deep into headspace and his own insecurities to feel anything but like a puppy.
Looking up, the younger man was met with dark brown eyes meeting his gaze. The Canadian nodded, allowing Oscar to use his sweater to wipe his tears. He pressed a kiss to the bridge of Oscar's nose again, before laying him in the marble of their hotel room's bathtub. His soft yet coarse hands made quick work of the leather collar around the Aussie's neck, rubbing the slight red it left behind.
Mercy coated Lance's eyes, as he sighed yet still gave a gentle smile. His cheeks lightly budding pink like a bush of hibiscuses. Oscar turned his nose up, smiling back in a toothy grin that went up the corners of his face. Face redder than salmon roe. Lance gripped his delicate hands, bringing them to his lips for a kiss. His skin was soft like the rest of him, yet he smelled his strongest here. Like oranges and vanilla.
Lance leaned against the tub, slowly taking off each of his dear's garments. Maybe Oscar had his hands available, but he was too deep into headspace to speak — let alone strip himself. The toffee of his eyes stayed locked onto the Quebecker, purring as he went limp. Even if Oscar could take care of himself, Lance knew he needed him now. And now was all that mattered.
At the final piece of clothing, Oscar's boxers, Lance paused. His hands moved up the pale of the Australian's body to cup his cheeks, moving his thumbs against them in a soothing motion. Lance looked down at him, gentle, serene. Oscar let him do anything, and he was glad he trusted him that much. Like a puppy to its owner. A vulnerable animal to its caretaker. He pressed one final kiss to his soft, pink lips. He tasted like sorbet, Lance's favorite.
They locked eyes once more before Lance's train of thought continued. His faint voice finding itself again.
"Let's— Let's get you cleaned up, Scotchie."
